


flying illya

by bubblebubble



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Fear of Flying, Gaby plays mother, Gaby sits first class, Hurt/Comfort, Napoleon talks his way from coach to first, OT3 lite, Poor mean-mugging softie Illya is stuck in coach, this is really just about me imagining how tol boi Illya would fold himself into a tiny economy seat, very mild jealousy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 08:34:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19663690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblebubble/pseuds/bubblebubble
Summary: “I’m fine. You need to leave. Now.”“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were afraid of flying, Peril.”





	flying illya

After tying up as many loose ends as they could in Istanbul, Waverly tucked them away onto a direct flight to New York, where they would be officially briefed as the newly minted organization called U.N.C.L.E. 

For the sake of appearances, Gaby told them as she tossed her dresses and earrings into an open suitcase, that she would be flying first class alone, under the guise of a West German heiress visiting family in America. Meanwhile Napoleon and Illya were to book separate seats in economy to stay under the radar. Napoleon had barely suppressed his grimace at the news – as far as he was concerned twelve hours in coach was not travel at all but a slow, champagne-less torture. Nevertheless, he figured that he, at least, would have no problem sweet-talking himself into an upgrade. 

Gaby, likely suspecting as much, eyed him pointedly and added, “You – book economy. I don’t care what you manage to pull at the gate but on paper you’re both in coach, got it?”

Napoleon nodded in response, and, not quite reigning in a smug grin, turned away from Gaby to set eyes on Illya sat on the other end of the couch. Illya was nodding as well, shoulders squared like a soldier, tucking his chin into his chest once, sharply, his face impenetrable as ever. His Russian friend, Napoleon mused, would by all odds not be swinging himself a first class seat. 

As Gaby struck up a conversation with Illya about how she had never truly been outside of Europe before, Napoleon amused himself with the thought of the blonde giant trying to fit himself into a cramped economy seat. Examining his partner from his end of the couch, he noted how the man was broader than he may appear, his sheer height balancing out his considerable breadth. Illya’s black turtleneck was snug over his neck and stretched almost imperceptibly over his shoulders. If anyone paid attention, they’d also see how Illya’s trousers were never quite long enough to cover his ankles and just barely skimmed the top edge of his socks.  
Napoleon blinked as he watched Illya shift slightly in his seat, trouser legs pulled up to reveal an inch of bare leg.

Allowing himself to savour this rare opportunity for unabashed ogling, Napoleon leaned back into the armrest to observe the subtle but marked shift in posture as Illya relaxed into Gaby’s lighthearted prattle. Now that she was finished briefing them on New York, Illya’s entire body was reacting to the shift in their respective roles, limbs unlocking at last, the hard bite of his jaw and his gaze relaxing under Gaby’s easy guidance. Napoleon was surprised to feel a spike of jealousy at the realization. lllya had yet to open up to him in even a fraction of the degree he did around Gaby. The closest Napoleon had ever gotten was over a burning disk and a finger of scotch on that balcony in Rome. 

Mentally shaking off his suddenly ugly and undeservedly negative feelings towards Gaby, Napoleon tuned back into their conversation. Illya was letting Gaby draw him out of a confession that he, too, had never crossed the Atlantic. 

“I’ll have to take you both to La Bambina to celebrate then,” Napoleon said. Gaby glared at him – of course there would be no opportunity for the three of them to be seen in public together, much less at a famous Michelin-starred restaurant. 

“…or at the very least I’ll bring you all some bagels for breakfast at the hotel, “ he added. 

Privately, Napoleon wondered what the odds were that he could talk the maitre d’ at La Bambina into letting him order take-out. 

-

As it turns out, sitting in first-class sipping champagne and nibbling on caviar and crackers was nowhere near as satisfying as it ought to have been. For the last three hours, Napoleon had been using his hard-earned leg room for no more than restless fidgeting. If Gaby noticed from her seat across the aisle she had the delicacy not to say anything about it that would unnerve him further. 

Napoleon tried to rationalize that his restlessness was not due to a certain Russian several rows and a curtain behind them, but rather his imminent and expectedly unsavoury re-uniting with Sanders on American soil. But after a few hours of quiet, decadent first-class suffering, he was finding it difficult to ignore the real reason his caviar tasted like sawdust. The last he’d seen of Illya was a glimpse of his jacket and stomach as Illya strode past their seats towards economy. It had been even longer since the last time he’d really checked up on Illya, as he and Gaby had waited to board in the lounge. 

At the four-hour mark, Napoleon snapped. Waiting until the restroom in first-class became occupied, he got up from his seat, pretended to a cabin of sleeping businessmen and Gaby to be put out about the unavailable lavatory, and snuck behind the curtain into economy. 

Slinking quietly through the darkened cabin, he made his way down the aisle to Illya’s row in the very back. Not as though Napoleon hadn’t long since memorized Illya’s seat number, the Russian was clearly visible from across the cabin. Even seated, Illya’s head cleared the height of the seats, his silhouette recognizable even in the dark.  
Illya had a window seat, and as he neared Illya’s row, Napoleon marvelled at how the man had managed to fold his body into the clearly undersized seat. Next to him sat an older woman with a shawl wrapped over her short grey perm, whose tiny stature only made Illya look bigger in comparison. 

Luckily, the lavatory in economy was similarly unavailable, allowing Napoleon the opportunity to linger and observe his partner from across the middle aisle. The older woman was reading under the light at her seat, and Napoleon could see that Illya’s eyes were closed. At first thinking him asleep, Napoleon quickly realized that Illya was in fact very much awake. Under the glow of the old woman’s reading light, Napoleon could just make out the telltale tapping of Illya’s fingers against his thigh. 

Napoleon frowned. At second glance, he could see how tense Illya was. Even more so than usual, Illya’s shoulders were squared uncomfortably, his chin tucked into his chest and arms drawn tightly against his sides. Napoleon squinted to try and make out more of his face but the light was not bright enough.

Napoleon moved aside to allow the occupant of the restroom by, before quickly deciding what to do next.

Rounding the back of the plane where two hostesses were preparing for the next drink service, Napoleon made his way around to Illya’s aisle, stopping at the elbow of the old woman sitting next to him. 

“Excuse me ma’am,” he said quietly in broken Turkish. In his peripheral vision he could see Illya startle at his presence. Ignoring him, Napoleon smiled at the woman and continued,

“Very sorry to bother you but I’m afraid my seat up in first class is not agreeing with my back and I was wondering if you would like to take it?”  
The woman blinked up at him, but quickly mirrored his smile and acquiesced. 

“Thank you,” Napoleon said as she gathered her book and purse. After she had gone, Napoleon busied himself with manoeuvring into the newly unoccupied seat, flashing Illya a grin as he did so. 

Illya looked livid, his eyes hard with an edge of panic as he leaned forward.

“What on earth are you doing?” he hissed under his breath. “This is not what we discussed – you are drawing attention to us.”

Napoleon ignored his protests and slide deftly into the seat, pulling up the armrest between them as he did so. “Not to worry Peril, everyone around us is asleep –“

Illya narrowed his eyes as he swept his gaze across the cabin. Napoleon sighed exasperatedly and grabbed his forearm to get his attention again, “I already checked, you can relax.”

Illya clenched his jaw as he turned back to his partner. 

“Why. Are. You. Here.”

Napoleon grinned again, unfazed and unsurprised by Illya’s reaction. 

“Like I said, I’m here to help you relax.”

If it were possible, Illya seemed to tense even more. “I’m fine. You need to leave. Now.” 

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were afraid of flying, Peril,” Napoleon replied easily, ignoring Illya’s protests. 

“Not fear of flying. Fear of being found and killed.” Illya’s accent was harsh on his tongue, his eyes darting back around to consider their cabin-mates.

Napoleon pursed his lips. He had expected a challenge when he came around but hadn’t expected to get such a rise out of Illya. The blonde looked more unnerved than ever, fingers tapping faster against his leg and chest expanding and collapsing rapidly with each breath. His distress was so apparent Napoleon wondered if he wouldn’t wake up the cabin with sheer anxiety. No, his protests were not of the usual sort. Illya was genuinely in distress.

Squeezing hard on Illya’s arm, Napoleon tried again. 

“Hey,” he sought out Illya’s eyes with his own, changing the timbre of his voice to something lower, calmer, devoid of the bite of his usual snark. Illya’s eyes flickered back to his, but remained unfocussed, manic.

Napoleon furrowed his brow. “Stop that, just – just focus on me for a second.”

He squeezed again on Illya’s arm. “Breathe, Illya, you have nothing to worry about. We’re safe. You’re safe.”

Illya paused, considering his partner for the first time. His eyes flickered down to where Napoleon was still holding him.

Napoleon paused but didn’t remove his hand. Illya had stopped tapping but remained as tense as ever, breath still coming all too fast. 

“Do you want me to get Gaby?” Napoleon asked slowly.

Illya looked up at him again, brow knit in equal measures of anxiety and confusion. He shook his head. 

“Okay,” Napoleon made to remove his hand but stopped at a hitch in Illya’s breath. He looked back at Illya but his partner had turned away, eyes lowered now as he clenched his hands into fists in his lap. 

Casting a brief glance around their cabin, Napoleon used his free hand to turn off the reading light over his seat. 

Napoleon cautiously moved his hand down Illya’s arm until he reached bare skin at his wrist. Sliding his hand along the dip of his wrist, Napoleon wrapped middle finger and thumb around Illya’s wrist and squeezed. 

Illya breathed out in a long and shaky exhale. Now that he was all but holding Illya’s hand, Napoleon could feel how he shook – trembled, even. This was perhaps the most vulnerable, most unguarded Illya had ever been around him. An Illya not lashing out in anger, nor simmering in a frozen rage. An Illya not twisting sadness, humiliation, or pride into something else. An Illya – by his own volition or some rare slip of vulnerability – letting himself feel something like fear. 

Turning Illya’s arm over to smooth his thumb over his wrist, he said, “Focus on your breathing.”

Illya said nothing but Napoleon could hear his effort to take slow but still jagged breaths. Napoleon continued to press his thumb over the inside of Illya’s wrist, as though trying to iron out his rapid heartbeat. 

Napoleon couldn’t quite believe what was happening – Illya, with Gaby – alone with Gaby – maybe – just maybe – might reveal himself in this way. Napoleon didn’t truly believe Illya was afraid of flying – even if he had been earlier in life, he was far too disciplined (not too mention he had been disciplined too far, Napoleon thought darkly) to lose himself to a phobia such as this. 

A fear of America then? Even as an U.N.C.L.E. agent – whatever that meant – Illya was still, among other things, a Russian. A spy. KGB. Killer. And somewhere underneath it all – just a man. This wasn’t just a tryst across a wall with walkie-talkies and back-up in your ear. This was a long flight, across a vast ocean of unknown depths, to a vast continent of unknown peril. Napoleon knew Illya the agent – relentless, ruthless, and – frankly – cocky. But this was another Illya, at last. One Napoleon only ever caught sneaking sideways glimpses of when Illya lowered his walls for Gaby. Only when Napoleon squinted his eyes and listened extra close. Only when Illya forgot Napoleon was even there. 

But Napoleon was here now.

Illya flexed the hand under his grasp and Napoleon pulled back in response. Illya didn’t look at him, but he rolled back his shoulders and aimed his eyes forward – skimming above the heads of the other passengers – and nodded to show he was okay. Napoleon blinked and settled back into his seat. 

They both looked out into the darkness of the buzzing airplane, in the direction of Gaby in the next cabin whom they could not see but whose presence they knew was there. Out in the direction of an unknown.

Napoleon sat, thinking, quietly in the dark.

And Illya sat next to him, feeling.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in 2017 and never put it anywhere. Cleaned it up and wrote an ending.  
> Saved as "flying illya" on my laptop.
> 
> La Bambina is a fake restaurant I made up.


End file.
